


Scars

by the_master_of_escapism



Series: Salvation Found in Damnation [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-06 22:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1874259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_master_of_escapism/pseuds/the_master_of_escapism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A body pinned him down. ‘What the bloody hell is wrong with you!?’<br/>‘John?’ Sherlock slurred, mind whirring with confusion and adrenaline. He stared with wide eyes at the man glaring down at him. ‘What are you doing here?’<br/>‘Me?’ he cried, clearly biting back any further words as he controlled his temper. ‘We can talk later. Right now I need to get you out of here.’<br/>‘I was doing well enough on my own,’ Sherlock said in defiance.<br/>‘Because falling from a ten story building is doing well, is it? Come on,’ John ordered and yanked him up by the crook of his elbow.</p><p> John's found Sherlock, but Sherlock has other plans. The safety and protection of the one man he loves is his driving factor, and it will drag them both to hell and back<br/>again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Guilty

The people swarmed around him, strangers shoving and pushing with a ferocity he found barely fathomable. It was expected that they’d be violent but to become so such an extent so soon, well it surprised even him. Their signs beat up into the air with their chants as one might do with a sword before battle. Sherlock fought through the throngs, his ears ringing with the crescendo of yells and cries the Iranians threw into the world in protest. Another fake election. Then again that was expected in a fake democracy. One big facade and the people were doing their best to fix it. Which would never happen.  
His investigations in Tehran led him to one place. Baharestan. He recalled the meeting he’d had with an associate to Sir Augustus Moran. The man he’d killed seven years prior, and father to the Colonel Sebastian Moran who had ordered the torturing and would no doubt try something else in the near future. He’d pretended to be an old army buddy of Moran’s, before the man was forced into early retirement from the army. Sherlock had no clear idea as to why Moran had been obliged to retire, only that a scandal had taken place, something bad.  
He internally groaned as his body was thrown this way and that by the protesters who were chanting ‘death to the dictator’. If he didn’t have anything else do he would have joined them.  
His mind pulled on the memory of his conference with the associate. He was an Iranian Minister, or used to be. A member of the Islamic Consultative Assembly when Moran’s father had been a Minister of Foreign Affairs to Iran.  
The smells, the noises and clatter of cutlery alongside the soft voices of other customers at the prestigious restaurant all swarmed back.  
‘Were you and Sir Moran good friends?’ Sherlock inquired gently, barely touching the meal in front of him. He’d dressed the part, a cheap suit that showed he had pride but not money. He imagined living off an army pension would be like that. Like it was for John. An air of dignity but the chains of financial issues hanging over him. His eyes analysed each detail of Hassan, the only person he could find who’d been close to Sir Moran in his time as Foreign Minister. He The short, bristly beard that was being dominated by the tell tale grey of age.  
Then the glasses that sat unevenly on his nose, one ear higher than the other and no adjustments made to accommodate it. The slight yellow tint at the ends of some of the hairs of his moustache, a sign of smoking, a pipe. The shirt buttoned to the top, cinched tightly, but still hanging loosely. Clearly it used to fit, showing that Hassan had lost a considerable amount of weight and recently. The suit had barely any wear, it was no more than a few months old.  
‘He was helping us put together the foreign policy, and in those times we needed that help. Although he couldn’t really do much, with Ali Khamenei keeping a firm clamp on everything and everyone. Supreme Leader, he’s called. This country’s in the gutter no thanks to him,’ he explained, his accent prominent but his English practically flawless. ‘But, yes. Augustus and I had time to grow close. Why do you ask?’  
‘Oh, Sebastian spoke of him a lot, that’s all. I wanted to hear about him from someone else’s point of view.’  
‘A man of curiosity,’ he noted, something sinister in his eyes. Hassan was a clever man, so he could have realised the facade.  
‘You have no idea,’ Sherlock replied with a devious twitch of the corner of his mouth.  
‘I was surprised to get your call, Major Wright,’ Hassan divulged, leaning back against the chair. ‘I hate to ask, but why did you really want to meet me? I doubt it was for tales of your friend’s father.’  
‘No, you’re entirely correct. I’m looking for him. For Sebastian,’ Sherlock said with honesty. Both Major Wright, fictional or not, and himself wanted to find him. For entirely different purposes, but Hassan needn’t know that. He took a sip of the Doogh from his glass. It was popular in Iran, and despite the rather repulsive taste who was he to insult their culture?  
‘I would have thought you two would keep in contact, if you were such good friends as you make it out to be,’ Hassan remarked mildly. Catching on, was he?  
‘We were. We are,’ Sherlock closed his eyes, tipping his head down. He knew how to act his part. Letting out a long breath of air he looked up and gave a pained smile. It fell with a soft chuckle of defeat. ‘I don’t know what happened. He dropped off the radar and, to be frank, I’m worried sick about him.’  
‘He’s a grown man, Major. He can take care of himself,’ Hassan said with doubt lacing his words.  
‘I know, of course I know. I’m sure you know about his abrupt retirement from service,’ Sherlock began, eyebrows lifted in waiting expectation for the look of realisation on Hassan’s face. When it flashed across he continued. ‘Everyone was shocked by it, me included and afterwards he seemed closed off. With the death of his father, I fear he sank deeper into whatever pit he found himself caught in.’  
‘And you want to pull him out,’ Hassan assumed.  
Sherlock kept his face serious, taught with the direness he needed to project. ‘Exactly.’  
‘If only every man could have a friend as loyal as you,’ he said wistfully. ‘Sadly, I can’t help. I’ve never even met Sebastian.’  
Sherlock catalogued the inadvertent twitch of the corner of Hassan’s eye. Not to mention his shifting of position in the chair. He’d been perfectly still and comfortable until then.  
‘That’s a pity,’ Sherlock sighed. ‘I don’t suppose you know of anywhere I could find someone who might be able to help? Someone else at the Assembly perhaps?’  
‘I doubt it,’ Hassan mumbled, eyes staring into his slowly but surely emptying plate of food.  
‘Humour me? Sebastian got himself into trouble a lot of the time, and this time he doesn’t have me to pull him out. I have been lower ranking than him in our regiment, but the amount of times I saved that bastard’s life,’ he trailed off, shaking his head as he pretended to remember the “good old days”.  
‘Try Baharestan then, if you’re desperate.’  
‘Thank you, so much,’ he said with gratitude. ‘When I find him, would you like me to call you? I can imagine some part of you is concerned for his well being too.’  
‘No,’ Hassan answered quickly, a finger tapping the cotton tablecloth. ‘I’m sure Sebastian will contact me himself.’  
‘Well then. This has been highly informative and I guarantee all you’ve said will be put to good use,’ he reassured Hassan, letting his smile touch his eyes to show pure honesty and joy.  
‘Likewise,’ he said in return. Sherlock didn’t let his grin falter, but what he said caught him off guard. Likewise? ‘Good luck on your search, Major Wright.’  
They both stood and shook hands firmly. He spied the odd staining on Hassan’s cuff, then the edge of what appeared to be bruised skin hidden by the suit. The skin of his hands felt rough, rougher than a diplomat’s should be. Although scrubbed clean the slightly faded lines which layered them were clear signs of cuts, and skin can’t lie.  
‘It’s much needed,’ Sherlock said finally and then took out a few Iranian rial banknotes, offering them to Hassan who was taking out his own.  
Hassan waved the money away. ‘Oh no, my treat.’  
‘Thanks,’ he replied, brows furrowed slightly at the generous act - even more so in how his meal was still practically untouched.  
Sherlock left into the street, tucking the notes into his jacket’s inner pocket. Passing the window he saw Hassan lean in close to a stranger, passing him a piece of paper. It was no longer suspicion he had. Hassan was no doubt helping Moran. Not his idea though, at least not to start off with. He was probably tortured into agreeing. The weight loss, negligence to eye care, the wounds and the dark spattering, for which blood was the winning culprit. All giveaways as to the truth. Easily looked over, but if you were searching for them from the start they stood out like sore thumbs.  
The crowd seemed to stretch on for miles and Sherlock winced slightly when an elbow hit his still rather sore injuries. The noise was deafening and the heat unbearable, his suit not helping the situation. No wonder the people rebelled and became so violent. At long last he made into open space, taking in a deep breath of fresh air and straightening the jacket. The Baharestan was a block or two away and anyone following him should have been lost in the protest. He smiled slightly at the predictable outcry as fighting ensued. Typical. Sad as it may be, especially the undoubtable outcome, he smiled for the people standing up for themselves. He knew the feeling of a certain someone trying to control you. Lestrade had tried and failed on multiple occasions after all. As had Mycroft.  
Then he groaned aloud. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw a man dressed like any other, only his build was far too bulky for a normal citizen. That and the stern glare he was giving Sherlock gave him away. One of Iran’s own secret police. Hassan was most definitely guilty.  
Keeping his steps steady, Sherlock began making his way down the street, weaving past the people, baskets of fruit and vegetables, and oncoming protesters. The man was following.  
Ahead the situation grew increasingly formidable. More members of the VEVAK rounded the corners of the buildings at the end of the street. There were at least eight of them now, rounding up on him. The longing that ached in his gut for London came to life again. The close quarters there made it easier to lose a person, but here the streets were wide. Perfect for a predator’s hunting grounds.  
His pace quickened and he caught sight of a small gap between a tall office building and a retail shop. His escape beckoned to him. Sherlock kept on his straight course, the aggressive looking foot soldiers of a corrupt government heading for him with a purpose.  
They drew closer and closer. One pulled back the edge of his shirt, revealing a gun tucked into the band of his trousers. Nearer and nearer. There was a circle of them now, subtly disguised in the pandemonium of the protest.  
Sherlock counted down from five in his head.  
Four.  
A new wave of oncoming protesters separated the group of VEVAK agents for a moment and Sherlock’s lips twitched at the apprehension that he could see flicker in their eyes.  
Three.  
They were only a couple of meters away.  
Two.  
They began to pull out their weapons, and they were heavily armed. More so than he had anticipated.  
One.  
Sherlock made a fast jerk to left when he came into line with the gap, covering the expanse in mere seconds as his arms and legs pushed him forwards. He could here the agents’ calls to one another in Farsi, his mind translating their words instantaneously.  
‘Block the other side and alert Taher!’ was all he managed to catch with certainty as he dashed. All too soon the walls of each building whooshed past him. There was only one way to go and his eyes tore the environment apart for some exit. The expected one was no longer an option.  
His route shone before him and Sherlock didn’t take a moment to waste. He leaped into the air and barely managed to latch onto the lower bar of a fire escape ladder. Pulling himself higher on the ladder with upper body strength he reached the top and climbed onto the black metal grate-like platform. From then on he was racing up the steps until they ended entirely. He stood confounded for a moment and then heard the yells as the VEVAK reached the normal exit, spotting him in no time at all.  
Sherlock looked across at the the roof top of the office building and groaned. The continued rabble below gave that needed push to do it. If he got caught, more torture. The memory alone made him wince and the still-healing wounds throb. He climbed over onto the other side of the protective railing, judging the distance between where he perched and the edge of the building.  
More shouts from below and then clanging of heavy boots on the metal.  
He vaulted across. The concrete slammed against his chest, but his arms managed to get a stable hold to hoist him up. It had been higher than expected too. Why hadn’t he realised? Rib cage aching he got to his feet quickly and began his course, heading for the third building along.  
The end of the one he ran across flew towards him and he leaped from the edge, over the gap, and landed onto the next with ease. Traversing London had given him good practice, although he was usually the one pursuing, not the one being pursued. The next gap to jump arrived and Sherlock pushed off from the edge of the rooftop, sailing through the air.  
Too far.  
He started to fall, the ground rushing up to him with an evil glare. Why didn’t he realise the distance this time too? How could he not have noticed? What was wrong with him?  
The wind whistled in his ears and his stomach dipped as gravity tugged him down towards its clutches.  
Something slammed into his side and he found himself flying sideways suddenly. The something gripped him tightly, painfully so, but it seemed needed when he hit the ground and the something’s arms kept him the brunt of the impact. The two skidded as the momentum died away, and he could feel sections of his suit tear. Cheap, he didn’t expect any less of it. When they finally came to a stop a small scuff ensued and Sherlock tried to get away, everything blurring in the battle. Then he found he couldn’t move at all.  
A body pinned him down. ‘What the bloody hell is wrong with you!?’  
‘John?’ Sherlock slurred, mind whirring with confusion and adrenaline. He stared with wide eyes at the man glaring down at him. ‘What are you doing here?’  
‘Me?’ he cried, clearly biting back any further words as he controlled his temper. ‘We can talk later. Right now I need to get you out of here.’  
‘I was doing well enough on my own,’ Sherlock said in defiance.  
‘Because falling from a ten story building is doing well, is it? Come on,’ John ordered and yanked him up by the crook of his elbow.  
‘John, we can’t escape,’ he stated the fact without hesitation. Better put out any delusions he had now rather than later. ‘They won’t stop until they have me, so hide in that basement there. The grate is easily removed with the correctly applied pressure-’  
‘Stop, Sherlock,’ John said immediately, ignoring the entrance to a basement he was pointing to. ‘I didn’t travel through the whole of Europe to Iran, of all places, to hide and watch you leave. Again.’  
‘I’m not sure if you noticed, but I left for a reason. To avoid this exact type of situation. Now hide.’  
‘Sherlock.’  
‘Hide, or next time I’ll leave for good,’ he threatened. His brain was barely registering that John was here, dressed in ridiculously baggy clothes and asking them to leave together. He wanted to go, but he couldn’t. He needed John to be safe, whether he wanted to be or not.  
‘What?’ he snapped, his voice so harsh it was barely above a whisper. The pained and angry expression John gave him made his chest tighten with a different kind of anguish.  
‘I don’t have the time to reunite with you, or run off with you. I have a purpose here, and there’s no point in you saving me because we’ll both die later on if you do,’ he tried to explain, keeping his voice stern and steady. ‘Hide.’  
He walked over to the grate and knelt down. Resting back on his hands his kicked the right side near the bottom, the metal creaking in protest. With another blow it was shoved out of its constraints and fell into the basement with a clang. Small twirls of concrete dust floated up from where the nails had been forced out of the wall.  
‘Go. Now,’ he instructed John as he got up, checking either end of the alley way. The VEVAK would be there in a matter of seconds. He could tell by John’s body language and facial expression that he hated feeling useless. Hated having to leave Sherlock to be caught. Hated having failed. ‘Please.’  
John didn’t say a word as he climbed through the hole, disappearing into the shadows. A moment later the grate was put back in place loosely.  
‘There!’ a voice shouted in triumph, Sherlock understanding the Farsi with no problem. He didn’t run. He didn’t look to John, who he knew would be staring with horror from behind the grate. He didn’t move a muscle or bat an eyelid. He’d find Moran this way. That was good enough. At least, he hoped he’d find Moran this way.  
The cuts, bruises and still mending ribs sang to him viciously. Sherlock closed his eyes and waited, listening to the quick footsteps of the VEVAK agents approaching. He collapsed to the ground when the butt of a rifle rammed into the back of his head. Opening his eyes was useless, blackness blurring the edges of his vision and soon enough encompassing it entirely.


	2. Spilled Molten Gold

The dripping of water, each plop it made as it splattered into a puddle, bounced around in his mind. Sherlock opened his eyes begrudgingly. He was tied to a chair in a damp, foul smelling, dark room. The walls were brick, and the ground made of ceramic squares which were cracked for the most part.  
‘Not again,’ he groaned wearily.  
‘Tied up again, yes,’ a man said with a thick accent. He elegantly went down the three steps below an archway, connecting it and that floor to the wrecked one Sherlock rested on. ‘My name’s Taher. I work for a friend of yours.’  
‘Sebastian Moran?’  
‘Yes, and his father before him. I owe him my life, and so life long servitude,’ Taher said humbly, unfazed by the magnitude of his words; As if literal slavery was the highlight of his life. ‘You shouldn’t be worried, Mr Holmes. Moran doesn’t want you dead.’  
‘Not yet,’ he interjected, knowing full well what Moran wanted. Sherlock had figured it out while being tortured the first time round.  
‘Not yet, you’re quite right. He does want to see you in pain though, but I myself am no sadist. Tortor’s protégé’s work satisfied some of the vengeance he wishes to wreak.’  
‘A protégé. Typical.’  
‘I assume you came here to kill him?’  
‘Yes.’  
‘Now, why would the infamously cunning Sherlock Holmes make such a bold and stupid move?’  
‘Maybe I’m slipping with age,’ he hypothesised, trying to shift away from possible guesses Taher could make. Everything he’d done would be rendered futile if he guessed the true reason behind his actions.  
‘Perhaps. Let’s see how well you hold up being kept hostage. I bet Scotland Yard will insist on your return, making for a rather large sum of money to be paid in ransom. Enjoy your stay here, Mr Holmes. I hope you find the rats good company,’ Taher informed him politely before leaving through the archway, his soft chuckle resonating against the old brick walls. Sherlock felt something push against his foot and he stiffened. Peering down he saw the scruffy mass of a rodent, it’s fur blackened with dirt and dampened by who knows what. Wrinkling his nose in disgust he let out a breath and welcomed the company of his mind once more.  
Getting tied up was becoming a loathsome habit, and having John at risk in Tehran of all places . . . It wasn’t something that set well in his stomach.

John shot up from the hard bed when he heard banging at the door.   
‘Sherlock!?’ he called frantically, getting to his feet and racing over to undo the chain lock. The moment the rusted metal was pulled out of its sheath the door flew open, a swarm of uniformed men storming in. He felt hands grab his upper arms as he was pushed back into his crummy hotel room.  
‘No, Doctor Watson. Samuel Walker, it’s a pleasure to meet you,’ he introduced, holding out his hand. John stared with confusion at the man. He was the only one dressed in a suit, shaven with gel in his hair. British judging by his accent.  
‘I assure you, it’s not. How dare you barge in here, and will you let go of me,’ he snapped, trying to get out of their steel grips. It was useless. ‘Are you soldiers? Iranian spies? Do you work for Moran?’  
Samuel Walker held his hand up and shook his head. ‘We’ve been sent here to get you out of harms way. Your friend Sherlock Holmes as well, don’t worry.’  
‘It’s been two days since they took him,’ he stated angrily, but it softened when he realised. ‘And I haven’t told anyone about it, so how did you know to come here?’  
How could they have come sooner if he didn’t alert another single soul of the situation? After he’d watched them snatch Sherlock he’d waited an hour before retreating back to the motel. Only after he looked to see if the men who’d taken him had left any clues behind. Failing any discovery he had come back and waited. Waited, and waited and then waited some more.   
‘It’s nothing you need concern yourself with. Now, my men will release you if you promise not to run,’ Walker told him calmly.  
‘Fine. Fine, just tell me what you know and what’s going on,’ John put forward his own demand as a fair exchange. When Walker nodded the others let their hands loosen and arms drop to the firearms attached to their waists.  
‘The truth of the matter is this,’ Walker began, and John had a moment of hope. To know more about the confusing situation. The sharp pain the branched up the side of head was so intense it clouded his vision. ‘We are not at liberty to discuss what’s going on. Nothing personal. Orders.’  
His thoughts became sloppy, running out of his mind as if it were a sieve. His knees became weak and he fell, caught by the uniformed men. In his delirious state, head throbbing and consciousness failing, he heard Walker say through the murky air, ‘Ship him off back to London. I’ll go deal with Tehran.’

John took in the world as much as he could from the slits of vision he had. His eyes felt to heavy to open fully. He tipped his head to the side to see two figures standing as they consulted one another.  
‘Exactly how much sedation did you use?’  
‘Enough, but not enough to kill him.’  
‘Keeping this country’s secrets secret,’ Mycroft sighed. ‘What a chore.’  
‘Your brother is also getting . . .’ the woman trailed off, finding it hard to pick the right word.  
‘What?’  
‘Difficult.’  
‘That’s Sherlock for you. Is he deducing yet?’  
‘Y-yes,’ the women informed him with a shaky voice.  
‘Hm, he does have that affect on people. Let him out. John’s awake, aren’t you?’  
He’d been discovered, no point in pretending to still be sleeping. John tried sitting up but the pain that shot off in his head stopped him dead in his tracks. ‘What’s happening?’ he forced out of his dry tongue, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth uncomfortably.   
‘Always asking questions, aren’t you?’ Mycroft commented, somewhat condescendingly, as he sent the woman on her way and walked over to sit down on a black modern age coffee table.  
‘Well if people would start giving me answers, I’d do it a lot less,’ he replied honestly, his eyes opening fully. He was stretched out on a plain leather sofa, designed for business not comfort. ‘This counts as kidnapping you know.’  
‘And who will you complain to?’ Mycroft inquired, knowing the answer already judging by the smugness that lathered his tone. ‘We needed you out of the way, Doctor Watson. I do however find it admirable that you’d travel so far, just for my brother’s sake. One would surmise you feel more for Sherlock than you let show.’  
‘What does that matter?’ he asked sharply, gritting his teeth at the unintended ferocity in his voice.  
‘I’m not here to learn about my brother’s social life, although I’m glad he finally has one. You may both return to Baker Street when he gets here,’ Mycroft told him conclusively, getting up to leave. ‘Oh, do drink lots of fluids? The amount of sedatives coursing through your body will take some time to pass from your system.’  
‘Why did you have to sedate me?’  
‘You were trained well by the army, Doctor. Five times you woke up and on all occasions you not only injured one of my . . . employees in your attempt to escape, but also yourself. That’s why you have so many bruises. Quite the soldier; retired or not.’  
John was speechless as Mycroft left, leaving him lying there alone. Sitting up he cursed at the aching of several spots. His right side was tender to the touch, and his knuckles had several healing abrasions on them. Looking around he was unnerved by the simplicity of the room. A small cube almost, the table, the sofa, and nothing else. The walls were pure white, the floor the same, and both untarnished. Every other feature was a plain black, including the door to the left of him. He thanked grace he at least had his own clothes on, one small comfort to ground him from the oddity of all else.   
A click from the door made him jump, but his heartbeat slowed immediately when Sherlock entered. John found himself searching for any wounds, eyes raking every part of exposed flesh. Flawless. Wait, no, not flawless, unharmed. He was unharmed.  
Standing up his entire body felt stiff and sore. ‘So, what happened?’  
‘I hear they kept you unconscious for the flight back here,’ Sherlock said in that same rich, dulcet voice.   
‘Flight?’  
‘A private aeroplane. Another quirk of my brother’s. Nothing happened to you when I was gone? Aside from Mycroft that is.’  
‘No, nothing. What about you? You don’t seem hurt,’ he asked with equal concern, eyes surveilling Sherlock.  
‘That’s because I’m not. Just a lot of talking. Everything was going as I’d planned, until Mycroft got involved. He thinks he saved me. Always so arrogant.’  
He bit back a remark detailing how Sherlock himself was far worse. ‘He did though, didn’t he? Save you?’  
‘I wanted them to capture me, John. Why else would I go to Iran of all places? It’s the perfect opportunity to learn more about your opponent. Their techniques, those involved, tactics. Before I could uncover anything substantial they released me,’ he explained with annoyance, his eyes narrowed slightly as he thought about it.  
‘From where I was it didn’t look intentional. In fact, if I hadn’t been there you’d be dead right now,’ John reminded him, proud of the leverage he had over Sherlock.   
‘Dead? No, not dead. Paralysed maybe with the damage that would have been done to my legs and spine, but not necessarily dead,’ he retorted, brushing any credit John might have had away.  
He scrubbed his face with his hand. ‘You’re insufferable.’  
‘I’ve upset you,’ Sherlock observed, the bafflement as to why present in his tone.  
‘You noticed?’  
‘Oh, um . . .’ Sherlock’s brows furrowed as he went into deep thought. ‘I’m . . . sorry. I’m sorry, John.’  
It seemed like he’d struggled with the apology, pausing and debating what to say every millisecond. He watched Sherlock for a moment. It had been three weeks. Three weeks since that night. Since Sherlock abandoned him in search of Moran. Since he’d trekked to a country every source told him to avoid, and somewhat illegally done so, all for Sherlock.  
‘How are your wounds? You know, from before.’  
‘Healing well. Still sore of course, and plenty will scar, but healing,’ he updated him, his voice soft, as if stating the facts would scare John away. “Scar” jumped out at him like a monster in a horror movie; Only it was a genuinely terrifying one, the kind that left you pale and slightly faint at how unexpectedly horrific it had been.   
‘That’s good,’ John murmured, fazed slightly as his mind drifted to thoughts of the injuries and what must have been done to inflict them. He’d never let himself ponder it fully before. Suddenly it had become the focus of all his thinking.  
‘Oh, do you mind if he we stop off at Scotland Yard before going back to 221b?’  
He snapped out of his dark contemplations. ‘Why?’  
“London has been void of my expertise for almost three months now. I’m sure there are enough unsolved cases to busy us for a few weeks. Why let that pile build up further?’  
‘You’re going straight back to consulting?” he asked incredulously. “After everything that’s happened?’  
‘I don’t see why not.’  
‘All right then,’ he said skeptically. ‘Oh, how did Mycroft get you out of Iran?’  
Sherlock’s face grew sour. ‘He paid the ransom, the idiot.’  
‘How much?’  
‘Three billion sterling pounds,’ he replied.  
‘You’ve got to be joking. That much!? For you? If I were in their shoes I’d debate leaving you there,’ John said with shock and honesty. He was honest a lot, even if it offended people. Maybe it was something he’d picked up from Sherlock’s brutal, but again honest, analysis of people.  
‘The sentiment is appreciated. I’m a treasure to Her Majesty, and Mycroft knows it. Not to mention the bad press if they caught wind of a famed consulting detective being detained in a foreign country and left there to rot. I do have my fans, John.’ Every word was filled with pride and a high opinion of himself. The arrogance had risen once more.  
‘Let’s just go,’ John sighed and passed Sherlock, through the door, and into the similar white corridor. ‘Where are we?’  
‘A containment facility. To contain what, I have no idea, and knowing my brother I don’t want to know,’ Sherlock answered, walking with elegant haste.   
‘You haven’t said a word about what happened before you left for Iran.’  
‘Neither have you.’  
‘You’re the one who left, not me,’ John reminded him, his voice harsher as he contained the emotion trying to break free.   
Sherlock looked at him from the corner of his eye as they continued to traverse the seemingly endless compound. ‘I explained the situation to you in the letter.’  
‘A letter won’t cut it, Sherlock. I don’t mean to be a stroppy teenager about this, but what you did . . . it was . . .’ his words faded and he slowed his pace.  
‘The right thing to do if I were to insure you kept breathing,’ Sherlock finished with a fort-strong resolution in his tone.   
‘Did you find Moran?’ he asked him coldly.   
Sherlock hesitated, and John could swear he saw a flash of hurt in the sociopath’s eyes at the corner he was being pushed into. ‘Not exactly.’  
‘Then it was all for nothing and you had no right to put me through what you did.’ There he’d said it. Spoken what he’d been thinking and told the harsh truth.  
‘I’m sorry, John,’ Sherlock said sincerely, or at least his words appeared to be sincere. A terrible thought occurred to him. What if Sherlock had acted with him before? The way he sometimes did on cases, where it was so convincing even John believed whatever lie he was feeding.  
‘I don’t want you to be sorry.’  
‘Then what?’  
‘I don’t know. To learn from the errors of your ways or something. Yeah, I’m sounding like a stroppy teenager. It doesn’t matter. A case might be good on second thought. Who doesn’t love a murder,’ he said, feigning joy at the thought of a life forced to leave prematurely. At long last they came to another door and without hesitation John pushed down the handle and opened it into an ice cold breeze. Walking out, feet splashing into shallow puddles, he looked over the barren landscape.  
‘An old shipyard. South coast, near Portsmouth,’ Sherlock answered the unspoken question in John’s mind.  
‘How could you possible know that?”  
‘That’s Goldring Lake,” Sherlock told him, pointing to a huge body of water. The waves like shards of dark glass which sliced up into the air as the wind tugged and pulled at the water.  
John lifted a brow. ‘Again, how do you know?’  
Sherlock paused, staring at the lake entranced. ‘I used to come here as a child.’  
John let it sink into his mind. Childhood. It was so hard to see Sherlock as a kid, playing with toys, laughing with friends. He barely knew anything about him. ‘Right, well how are we supposed to get back to London?”  
‘Mycroft has all ready thought of that. There’s a car waiting for us.’  
‘I don’t see any car,’ John muttered, marching forwards. He shook his head when he caught sight of the black Mercedes sat patiently beside a wall of the building. Only from where Sherlock was standing he wouldn’t be able to see it. ‘Let’s go then.’  
‘In a moment,” he replied, barely audible over the howling wind which rushed pass John’s ears. He could feel his heart ache. Sherlock was still so mysterious, how he thought, his past, hell, even who he was. The distance that still stood between them, physical and otherwise, pained him. The fact that Sherlock was acting as if nothing had happened pained him more.   
Leaving Sherlock staring out to Goldring lake, John made his way to the car. The side door opened for him and once he recovered from the momentary surprise he ducked his head and climbed into the backseat. No one was there apart from the driver who kept facing forwards.  
‘Automatic doors?’ John asked curiously. The man said nothing so he sighed, settling back into the cushioned leather seat as he waited for Sherlock. A soft chuckle resounded from his mouth. Always waiting. Always honest. Always loyal. Three very good traits you might find in a dog.   
The other door opened with a mechanical hiss and Sherlock slid in gracefully, eyes still distant and seeing far more than the inside of the car.  
‘Scotland Yard, London, if you wouldn’t mind,’ Sherlock addressed the driver who didn’t respond other than starting the car’s engine. It thrummed into life, a soft hum of the engine the only thing present as they drove from the weathered sea side location to the nearest motorway. The traffic wasn’t too bad so they managed to get back to London in one and a half hours. The transition from country to industrial landscape jogged the memory of John’s travels to Iran. He’d lost count of all the trains he’d taken, the hitchhiking, the bribes he made with lorry drivers that would take him a few miles closer to Sherlock.  
The silence that engulfed them both was becoming suffocating, not comfortable like it used to be. John shifted at the discomfort, receiving an intrigued glance from the devil. The devil a.k.a. Sherlock. At this point he was going to go along with the inner teenager willing him to let it out. Perhaps it was a Post Traumatic Stress technique: his mind had resorted to viewing the man, who had caused him immeasurable amounts of both pain and pleasure in such a short span of time, as the devil incarnate.   
The car pulled up to the curb outside Scotland Yard. Sherlock asked the driver to wait for them and he climbed out, determination shining in his eyes. John puffed and followed, jogging to catch up with Sherlock as he entered the building. Sherlock wasted no time in getting an update of crimes out of an officer. His power of intimidation was at times unparalleled. Lestrade walked out of his office, engrossed in a file.  
‘Detective Inspector,’ John called to him.  
Lestrade looked up surprised and made his way to him as he closed the file and slid it onto a desk. “Doctor Watson. Where have you been?’  
John opened his mouth as a response formed, but he chose to swallow the rant preparing to barrel out. ‘It’s a long story.’  
‘No Sherlock?’ he asked, looking over John’s shoulder as if he would be hiding there.  
‘Oh, he’s over there,’ John said, directing him to the consulting detective still taking an occasional note on what the young police officer was saying.  
‘So, what happened?’ Lestrade finally inquired after sending someone to pull Sherlock away from the officer. ‘I was expecting to hear from him, well both of you, weeks ago. I didn’t think Sherlock would be one to take a break from crime.’  
‘Part of the long story, which I think might be classified,’ John realised aloud. Given the circumstances and the involvement of Mycroft he was probably right.  
‘Okay. Well I have a few cases we have no leads on. Not yet anyway. If you two want to take a crack at them be my guest. We’ve had our best working on them but still nothing.’  
‘Well Sherlock certainly is . . . unique,” he said, recalling Sherlock’s proclamation of being ‘a treasure to Her Majesty’.  
‘What a compliment, John,’ Sherlock said with faint smugness, before turning to Lestrade. ‘You might want to hire people with stronger wills, Lestrade. That officer is undoubtedly the most malleable person I’ve met.’  
Lestrade’s eyebrows rose. ‘Malleable?’  
‘Easily manipulated.’  
‘I know what you meant!’ he said angrily.  
Sherlock watched him in confusion. ‘Then why did you ask?’  
‘I didn’t,’ Lestrade started but sighed instead of saying anything more on the matter. ‘A women called Olivia Turner found her husband dead in their second home last Tuesday. Barely any leads, no forensic evidence, even the autopsy revealed nothing as to how he died. She lives down at Summerstone Mansion. Your welcome to pitch in. Now get out of here before I have you locked up for the night for harassing a member of Scotland Yard.’  
‘I reject your premise that I was harassing anyone.’  
‘It’s not your call, Sherlock. Now go.’  
They obliged and started back to the car.  
‘Would you look at that. Barely here ten minutes and you all ready pissed him off,’ John remarked with amazement.  
‘If I hadn’t wouldn’t you be more concerned?’ Sherlock asked him with a watchful gaze.  
He was right, of course. ‘True.’  
Sherlock opened the passenger door and then slide over to the other seat for John.  
‘221b Baker Street, please.’  
The Mercedes rumbled smoothly to life once more and they began the journey there. After a minute or two of silence and thinking it struck John. ‘Oh, god. Mrs Hudson.’  
‘What about her?’ Sherlock pressed, clearly not noticing the issue it, she, was.  
‘I left her a note and . . . I probably terrified the woman, talking about leaving indefinitely and-‘  
‘Indefinitely?’  
‘Well, I was going to Iran, Sherlock. Not exactly a prime honeymoon location, now is it?’  
‘Hm. I’m sure she’ll be fine once she knows we’re both safe and returning.’  
John sounded in agreement, although the guilt still prevailed in his mind. He looked out the window as London flashed by and when they turned onto Baker Street every muscle he hadn’t realised were taut to begin with relaxed.   
John was one step ahead of Sherlock and he unlocked the front door, pushing it open to reveal the familiar sight. Their bags from Iran had been in the boot of the care, and John now dumped the two lightly packed backpacks in the foyer. Behind him Sherlock paused before entering. ‘I’ve barely been here since we took on that case,’ he mused. ‘It’s good to be home.’  
John headed up the stairs and into their shared flat. Not one thing looked different and when he sank into the armchair a sigh of pleasure blew from his lips. He closed his eyes and let the warmth sink into his bones. The sound of Sherlock moving about the room made him open them again.  
‘I’m still angry at you,’ he said sourly.  
‘Your emotions allude me,’ Sherlock said, his intellectual frustration evident in how he picked at the odd suit he wore. He’d left the coat behind, and had elected to wear a suit that was no doubt better fitting before he began running around Tehran hunting down a criminal mastermind.  
‘I guess that’s what I get for having sex with a sociopath.’  
‘John,’ he practically breathed his name as he ambled closer to sit down in the opposite seat, pressing his hands together and pushing them to rest against his mouth. His eyes were dark with thought and concern.  
‘No, it’s okay Sherlock,’ he lied, looking anywhere else but at the other man. It could never be okay but he knew Sherlock couldn’t help it. That made it worse, but if they couldn’t be together like that, he’d accept it. ‘We’re completely different and that’s okay.’  
‘If you’re still so upset I’m sure Mycroft won’t mind if I stay with him for a while,’ he mumbled from behind his hands.  
‘You’re kidding right? You hate him, Sherlock,’ John reminded him and waited for an agreement. None came. ‘Look, you quite literally abandoned me. Right after we . . . well you know. I just . . . this is a lot to process.’  
‘He’ll still try you know. Try to hurt me, through you and Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, all of you.’  
There it was. The reason why Sherlock had felt so distant, why he hadn’t said anything that a colleague wouldn’t say to another colleague. The reason why John had gotten no encouragement from him as to pursue the relationship they’d entered into a few weeks prior.  
John growled slightly. He didn’t know Sherlock could be so fatalistic. In fact he knew Sherlock never was, making the situation that more serious. ‘We’ll stop him. But only if you don’t run off again. I swear, sometimes you act like a child.’  
‘I sometimes act like a child?’ he solicited an explanation, clearly averse to the entire notion.  
‘You’re right, you act like one all the time. Promise me you won’t do that kind of thing again?’ It was the least he could ask for.  
Sherlock didn’t respond for a few minutes, and John felt his heart becoming rock hard as a shielding method. Then, he leaned forwards and looked up at John. The raw emotion burning in his ice blue eyes startled him. ‘I’ll do anything for you, John. I’ll do anything to protect you, and what we have. That, I promise you.’  
The air that John drew in felt thick, hard to take in. He couldn’t look away from those eyes. He was transfixed. Odd. They had speckles of yellow, like spilled molten gold in an ocean.   
‘I don’t, uh. I don’t know what to . . .’  
‘Sherlock?’ Mrs Hudson’s voice pierced the air like a jolt of reality hitting John.  
‘Ah, Mrs Hudson,’ Sherlock greeted, smiling to her. He looked back to John with the same look of suffocating intensity before standing and walking over to hug her.  
‘Where have you boys been? Leaving me on my own here with nothing but a note. Where did you go Sherlock? It sounded like you had given John the shock of his life.’  
‘I’ll tell you tomorrow, over lunch maybe? John and I,’ he hesitated, ‘we have some things to talk over in private.’  
Her perplexed expression was replaced by one of embarrassed understanding. ‘Oh! I see. Well don’t talk too loudly. I’m having a friend over in a bit.’  
‘Of course not. It’s good to see you,’ he added. John couldn’t help but frown at how kind Sherlock was being towards her. So maybe he was sorry. Guilty at the very least.  
‘Still not much for talking are you John?’ she noticed, looking pass Sherlock to him sat in the chair.  
‘It’s been a busy few weeks, that’s all, Mrs Hudson,’ he reassured her with a smile before she was gently ushered out by Sherlock.  
He closed the door with a soft thud and stayed there, turning his head to stare intently at John. ‘I’ve never done this before you know.’  
‘Done what?’ John just couldn’t get used to how conversation topic seemed to jump erratically all the time. It never stayed on one sensible, steady course.  
‘Relationships,’ Sherlock practically sneered the word. ‘I’ve read about them, and I understand the chemistry involved, but the real thing is more complicated than I’d thought.’  
‘Well, that’s quite the admission for you,’ John praised him.  
‘I may have a psychological set back on the whole area, but with you . . . something’s different.’  
John got up slowly, heading to Sherlock and leaning against the wall besides him. ‘This feels like fresh water to me too, you know. I’ve had plenty of girlfriends but aside from biology you really are a whole other world in comparison. I suppose that’s one of the reasons I, uh . . .’  
‘You what?’  
‘Isn’t it obvious by now? I love you, Sherlock.’  
He felt Sherlock’s long fingers press against his cheek. There was a long pause, every second the air itself weighing down him until finally Sherlock murmured, ‘I never thought love could hurt so much.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it ends kinda intensely, but next chapter big things happen so no worries (big happy things). It's not all dark and dreary all of the time ^^


	3. A Masterpiece Of Ingenuity

He felt Sherlock's long fingers press against his cheek. There was a long pause, every second the air itself weighing down him until finally Sherlock murmured, 'I never thought love could hurt so much.'  
'Well usually the relationships aren't as mess up as ours. Actually, they usually are. Only their issues don't involve torture, kidnapping and impending death by a psychotic vengeful mad man.'  
'He's not psychotic. He's actually rather intelligent.'  
'The two come hand in hand don't they? You're a perfect example,' John muttered, wrapping his own hand around the one on his cheek. Stepping closer he looked up to Sherlock as he snaked his hand up and around the back of his neck. Pulling him down their breaths communed in the small gap left between them.  
'I'm not sure if I should be flattered or insulted,' Sherlock breathed as he enveloped John with his arms, one closed tightly around his waist and the other hand resting on the back of his head.  
'Both,' John mumbled, his entire body buzzing and his lips tingling with the heat of Sherlock's breath rolling over them. 'You're doing really well by the way.'  
He moved his head closer and then back again, tempting John without even realising it. 'With what?'  
'The whole relationship thing, at least the more instinctual, animalistic parts.'  
'John,' Sherlock murmured.  
'Yes?'  
'I need you,' he purred.  
John forgot how to breathe.  
'Now,' he panted, tugging John with him to the sofa and shoving him down onto it. He climbed on top of him and drowned him in a kiss. Their bodies pushed against each other as the heat burned through their clothes. Sherlock fumbled with John's belt buckle in a hopeless attempt to remove it. John chuckled into his mouth and Sherlock pulled back.  
'Would you like some help with that?'  
'It's not supposed to be a funny experience,' Sherlock told him with furrowed brows.  
'It can be, if you make it funny.'  
'We'll see if you're still laughing when I'm done,' he threatened with a glint in his eyes as he descended upon John once again. His hands pushed up beneath his shirt, and they burned wherever they pressed against John's all ready hot skin. He could feel the warmth pooling in his groin and John moaned into the kiss, running his hand through Sherlock's silk soft hair. The sensation of the cool, dark brown strands caressing his skin as his fingers glided through them heightened the ecstasy.  
Sherlock nipped at John's bottom lip before leaving a trail of butterfly kisses along his jaw bone, neck and then collar bone. His tender exploration of John's bare skin stopped when noise blared. The ringing continued to batter against their eardrums. He sighed and dropped his head into John's shoulder.  
'I should probably get that,' he mumbled into the cloth of his shirt, the vibrations of his voice mesmerising.  
'They'll call again if it's an emergency,' John surmised with hope. He never wanted Sherlock to stop.  
'Ring tone. It's Mycroft. He never calls for something menial. Usually earth-shatteringly important." The disdain hung on every word. 'Don't move.'  
He pushed himself up, the movement causing their hips to rub against one another and a wave of pleasure mocked John as Sherlock left.  
His lithe movements as he padded to his mobile made John even more wanton.  
'What is it Mycroft?'  
His eyes which had been hazy with lust turned sharp and calculating. John pushed himself up onto his elbows, watching Sherlock listen to whatever was being said. Sherlock's expression grew tighter and his frown deepened with every second that passed.  
'What time?' he asked into the phone. 'How many, Mycroft?'  
John's own eyebrows pushed together when he saw Sherlock's mouth twitch, and his eyes glitter.  
'None,' he said to Mycroft, his tone ecstatic. 'Of course, aren't you?'  
He finally gave up hope that their . . . intimacy would continue that night so John sat up properly, swinging his legs over to rest on the floor.  
Sherlock nodded. 'See you then.'  
He pulled the phone away and ended the call, placing it back on the table. John looked at him expectedly, waiting for an explanation.  
'A series of assassinations of four high government officials. All killed the same way, all at the same time, and all integral members of the British Parliament.'  
'Why were you acting so happy then?' he asked with horror.  
'I can only keep up the charade of concern for so long, John. The cases Lestrade was offering were plain, simple, boring. This one,' he breathed out in admiration, 'it's a masterpiece of ingenuity.'  
'You're serious?'  
'It's never been done before, John. Doesn't that make you the least bit exited?'  
'Not really. Four people are dead, Sherlock.'  
'People die all the time, you don't seem brokenhearted over their deaths. What's four more in the scheme of things?'  
John covered his face with his hands. 'Useless,' he grumbled with defeat.  
'What is?'  
'Me trying to get you to feel an ounce of remorse for the deaths we investigate.'  
'It won't make me do my job any better, will it? If anything it will only hinder me, so there's no space for it in my mind.'  
'Like there was no space for the solar system?'  
'Exactly.' He warned John with his eyes not to bring up the fact that it was indeed needed on one case. 'We'll be picked up tomorrow at eight to go to the Palace of Westminster. More specifically the House of Lords.'  
'What?'  
'One of the four was the Secretary of State for Defence,' he informed, the words themselves buzzing with exited energy.  
'And Mycroft has asked you to investigate it?'  
'My talents aren't unknown, John. Yours are rather commendable as well, and Mycroft knows it.'  
'Thanks,' he said, dazed. An assassination of such a high profile person? It didn't bode well for anyone, and the magnitude of the situation had either blown past Sherlock entirely or he knew it and wasn't taking it as seriously as he should. 'The other three?'  
'The House of Commons, but their cases are being analysed by others,' he answered, nose crinkling at the mention of others.  
'Why not you? Why work on just one of the murders when they're clearly all connected?'  
'Time. Lack of it. Even though my brother has full trust in my capabilities, they aren't fully appreciated by the people he works for. They're the ones who are looking into the assassinations, and the fact that I've been allowed to get involved is sensible, yes, but also extremely flattering. Given their reputation, anyway.'  
'Aren't they supposedly secret? The people Mycroft works for. I mean, you once said he is the British Government, so whoever has power of him . . . well they must be downright important, and kept under wraps.'  
'Not to me, they're not,' he stated. 'Don't tell them that though. It's grounds for indefinite imprisonment or being shipped off to Timbucktu.'  
'Of course I won't,' John said softly, processing the situation. 'So, I take we're not going to, uh . . .'  
'What?'  
He cleared his throat. 'Continue?'  
Sherlock smirked and moved over to him. Leaning down so his lips brushed against John's ear he whispered, 'As much as I'd love to, the last experience left me . . . rather spent. I doubt I'd be able to do it again and get up early enough for the meeting arranged at the House of Lords tomorrow. You're welcome to sleep in my room, though. If you want.'  
A blush bloomed like flowers across John's cheek. 'I, uh-'  
'Come along, John. Sleeping in the same bed is part of a relationship, isn't it?'  
'Only really after, you know,' he stuttered while being pulled up to his feet by Sherlock's guiding hand.  
'Does it have to be?'  
'Obviously not,' he began, flustered.  
'Then there's no objection? You can grab pyjamas from your room if you like. Personally, I don't mind,' he said, and his deep voice lulled John. Sherlock lead John to his bedroom, closing the door behind them. The next second he was unbuttoning his shirt and letting it slip down past his shoulders to drop to the floor. John felt the pressure in his trousers as nature pushed against restraints. He cursed himself and turned around with embarrassment.  
'You don't have to sleep here if you don't want to, John,' he told him, noticing John's action.  
'I - I think I'll just sleep in my room,' he concluded. He wanted it, and biology gave him away, but emotionally he knew things weren't quite right.  
'Good night then, John,' Sherlock said curtly, and the courteous words stung John. Distancing the two of them with common, everyday, mannerism. Before he left he spun around and kissed the sociopath. Soft, loving and drowning. He hoped it conveyed what he couldn't say. How he wanted what they had, but that things needed to be fixed first.  
'Good night, Sherlock,' he rasped when he pulled away. The briefest eye contact made his heart melt and John headed for his room immediately. The image of Sherlock's perfectly sculpted marble chest, dark curls, the taste of his lips, all of it followed him and haunted him that night. One fact gave him comfort in the torture though. Had he stayed, sleeping would have been second on the agenda. Sherlock was the one who needed rest, and so John was giving it to him. However, a small voice stole any solace with it's disquieting words. What if that was just an act? What if he didn't want to become physical, as before, for a reason other than the expectation of weariness?


End file.
